


Nowhere Fast

by Damkianna



Category: Streets of Fire (1984)
Genre: Antagonism, Caretaking, Confrontations, Kissing, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon, Protectiveness, Rescue, Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-09-18
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:54:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26533933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Damkianna/pseuds/Damkianna
Summary: Tom didn't actually leave town, in the end.He thought about it. He thought about it hard. It was tempting, no doubt about it.But he'd tried leaving things behind before. Chicago, Ellen. Himself. Hadn't worked, not once. The only thing that did work seemed to be coming back: taking a good hard look at what you'd left, deciding what it meant to you now and what it didn't, instead of running away from it some more.
Relationships: Tom Cody/Raven Shaddock
Comments: 4
Kudos: 8
Collections: Fandom Giftbox 2020





	Nowhere Fast

**Author's Note:**

  * For [galerian_ash](https://archiveofourown.org/users/galerian_ash/gifts).



> ♥!
> 
> Title borrowed from the movie soundtrack (again), because it fit so well I couldn't help it.

Tom didn't actually leave town, in the end.

He thought about it. He thought about it hard. It was tempting, no doubt about it.

But he'd tried leaving things behind before. Chicago, Ellen. Himself. Hadn't worked, not once. The only thing that did work seemed to be coming back: taking a good hard look at what you'd left, deciding what it meant to you now and what it didn't, instead of running away from it some more.

So he got in the car with McCoy. He tagged along, for a while.

But after a week or two, she got restless. Wanted to really put some miles on those new wheels of hers. And when she invited him to come along, he looked at her and then away, and said, "How about you come back for a visit now and then, okay?"

When he showed up at the diner, Reva looked surprised to see him. But she was glad, too. She was willing to give him a job waiting tables—with double duty as security, if anybody else came around trying to hassle her or start something. He agreed; and then she tilted her head and narrowed her eyes and said, "You got somewhere to sleep?"

He didn't.

She had a room upstairs, she said. He could have it, and food out of the diner's kitchen when he wanted it, if he'd help her out with some other odd jobs: new coat of paint, fixing the back door where it was starting to hang off its hinges, that kind of thing.

It was easy enough to get settled, in the end. And he'd never thought of himself as the kind of person who could manage that—but it was worth trying new things every now and then, even if you weren't real good at them to start with.

McCoy came back through every couple of weeks to say hi, stuff her face and make fun of how Tom looked in an apron, take him for a drive, that kind of thing. And he'd always liked Reva, so he didn't mind seeing her every day. Since his big showdown with the Bombers, things had been pretty quiet. He didn't have to get in anybody's face very often, and when he did they backed down quick.

It was working out. It was kind of nice.

And it might have stayed that way, if Raven Shaddock hadn't showed up.

Tom figured it was McCoy, at first.

He heard the door, and nobody else ever came in this late except her. He was busy sweeping up crumbs under the corner table, which always seemed to have about ten times more of them than the rest; he said, "What, you missed me that much?" without looking up.

Something about the scuff of the footsteps, the weight of them, made him frown just a little, even before they stopped well short of him.

And then Raven Shaddock said, "Can't say I did," in a tone that dripped venom, and Tom went tense and jerked his head up.

It was him, all right. Just about the same as Tom remembered; if he'd changed at all, it had only been to get narrower, harder, meaner.

"Kitchen's closed," Tom said evenly. "We still got some sandwiches wrapped up, though, if you don't mind turkey on rye."

Shaddock sneered, lip curling, and looked Tom up and down. "Playing dress-up?"

"I work here," Tom said.

Shaddock scoffed. "You have to be kidding me," he murmured. "Tom Cody, waiting tables."

"If you want a sandwich, then say so," Tom said. "If you don't, then we're closed."

And Shaddock took a couple steps closer, till he was near enough to reach out and shove Tom at the shoulders. "Come on. You know what I'm here for, Cody. Come on."

Tom raised an eyebrow at him, let himself be pushed and didn't push back—though he didn't take a step back, either.

"Rematch," Shaddock insisted. "Just you and me. Come on."

Tom didn't let the look on his face change, and didn't look away from Shaddock; he just kind of relaxed his eyes, like he'd learned to do in the army, and let his field of vision open up. There was nothing moving in the street, except a bit of trash blowing along. It was dim, not raining but threatening to. Nobody was out.

Which meant if there were Bombers hiding out there, they were doing a hell of a job. Nobody had followed Shaddock through the door.

So maybe it was just him, like he said.

But that didn't mean Tom wanted to fight him.

"No," Tom said aloud. "If you want food or coffee, I'll get you some. But if it's a fight you're looking for, you won't get one from me."

Shaddock gave him a long incredulous look, lip curling. He leaned in and shoved Tom again—harder, this time, and Tom braced himself and rode it out.

"Don't make me call Cooley," he said quietly.

Shaddock stayed like that for a second, too close, hands curled a little in the shoulders of Tom's shirt. And then he sneered and let go, turned around and stalked out of the diner.

It would have been nice to think that was the last Tom was going to see of him. But Tom was already pretty sure it wouldn't be.

He was right.

Shaddock didn't let it go. As if he would, as if he knew how to. He was like a dog with a bone—a mean stray dog who snapped at people's fingers, and the bone not even worth the trouble.

He came back to the diner again the next night. Same time, just about closing. He didn't want a sandwich, and he didn't want a coffee. He wanted to fight with Tom.

Tom put him off again.

It didn't help.

After a week or so, he started coming around more often, like he thought maybe if he got in Tom's face in the morning, or midday, he'd get a different answer. He wouldn't back off, and he wouldn't quit. He pushed Tom around, goaded him and sneered at him, and Tom took it and didn't get bothered about it, waited him out and asked him whether he was done and then offered him a sandwich again.

Reva didn't like it. Of course she didn't. But she wasn't about to fire Tom over it; and the thing was, there was never anybody else with Shaddock. It was always just him, alone. And he never broke anything, never messed anything up. He didn't put rocks through the windows, and he didn't buy food just to dump it on the floor and grind it in with his heels. He came after Tom, and then he left, every time.

Tom didn't think about it too hard, at first. He didn't want to.

But it meant something. It had to. There was never anybody with Shaddock because he didn't have anybody to bring anymore—the Bombers couldn't have wanted somebody leading them who Tom had beaten up right in front of them. Tom didn't want to know that, but it was hard to avoid getting the picture, with Shaddock showing up alone all the time.

And the look that crossed his face every time Tom told him he could sit down, or offered him something to eat—that meant something, too. Tom had expected him to go for it at least once; to enjoy it, even, having Tom for a waiter, making Tom run and fetch and carry for him.

But he didn't. Not ever. Tom had thought the first time he'd showed up that he'd looked narrower, harder. Leaner.

It had only been a fact, then. Tom hadn't expected to start wondering when it was Raven Shaddock _did_ eat, if he wasn't doing it when he came to Reva's to bother Tom.

Tom was running an errand for Reva when it happened.

When he heard somebody behind him in the alley he was using for a shortcut, he thought at first it was Shaddock.

Then he realized it was more than one pair of feet.

He turned around.

They were Bombers. He could tell that much just looking at them; he thought maybe he even recognized a couple of them straight-out.

Five of them. Five of them, walking up real casual, and a friendly sort of look on each of their faces.

Tom set down the crate he'd been carrying—coffee, flour, half a dozen other things Reva'd discovered they were almost out of—and then put his back to a wall and started to roll his sleeves up.

Maybe he'd been wrong all along. Maybe Shaddock was in just as good with the Bombers as ever; maybe he'd finally lost patience with Tom, and if Tom wouldn't agree to fight, then Shaddock was ready to make him.

"Nice day, huh," he said aloud.

"Oh, yeah," said the nearest of them, wide-eyed, a parody of sincere. "Yeah, real nice. That's why we're here, actually. See, Cody, we got a new boss these days. And he figured, since it was such a nice day, you might come on and take a walk to the Battery with us."

A new boss, Tom thought. So it wasn't Shaddock who'd set him up after all.

He shouldn't have been glad about it. He was still in a hell of a lot of trouble here, whether it was Shaddock who'd gotten him into it or not.

But he was. He was.

Shaddock wouldn't leave him alone, but he was on the level about it. He came at Tom face-to-face every time; he didn't sneak up in an alleyway with five guys who were all looking to get their kicks in. Shaddock had had a hundred guys, the first time Tom had beat him, and he hadn't let a single one of them help him.

Tom didn't know why it was so important to him that that should be true. That he should be able to—to trust Shaddock, even just a little bit.

But it was. And It was good, in a strange way, to know Tom hadn't been wrong about that much.

"So how about it, huh?" another one of them was saying, coming closer. They were making a half-circle now, caging Tom in. "You coming, or what?"

"Rather not, if it's all the same to you," Tom said, quiet.

The first guy made a face, all false sympathy. "Well, the thing is, unfortunately for you, it ain't," he said. "It ain't the same at all. Our boss, he doesn't like to be kept waiting."

"Well, if he's waiting on me, then it's going to be a while," Tom said.

The first guy shook his head. "All right, then," he said to Tom, and then, bland, easy, to the guys at his shoulders, "Go on, get him."

They weren't working together like they should have been. That helped. They all kind of tried to rush in at once, got in each other's way. He laid one out easily enough, tripped a second so he hit the alley wall and then kneed him in the gut.

But there were still three more of them. One of them grabbed him by the arm, face twisting, furious; Tom wrenched himself around, quick, trying to break that grip. He realized a second too late that turning the way he had as he did it had brought his back away from the alley wall. He was already bringing his other arm around, hard sideways sweep that would turn into a haymaker—his fist met the guy's jaw an instant before another one of them struck him in the back, yanked on his hair and dragged his head back and then hooked an arm under his chin. Around his throat.

Whoever it was who had him in the choke, they didn't waste any time. The one in front of him that he'd hit staggered with it and stumbled sideways, let his arm go; he reached up and gripped the elbow looped around his neck, dug his fingers in as hard as he could.

They swore at him, threw their weight into it until his back bowed a little, and squeezed harder.

Tom didn't make a sound. He closed his hands tighter, pulled harder—or at least he thought he did. It was a little hard to tell. His vision had started to dim, flickering light and dark around the edges. He could feel his face going red, strained.

Now, he thought distantly, _this_ would be the perfect time for someone to hand him a tire iron.

And then, abruptly, there was nothing holding him up anymore.

His legs felt like rubber, and he wasn't sure which way was up anyhow; he fell, gasping, and landed on his knees, and the sharp bright ache of striking them that way jarred him to the bone—cleared his head a little. He caught himself on one hand, rough pavement scraping his palm, and blinked, coughed.

Something moved behind him. He tried to get up, tried to be ready for it, and just ended up swaying sideways, catching himself on the alley wall and falling back. He forced his blurring eyes to focus, and it was—

It was Raven Shaddock.

One of the guys Tom had dealt with first was still down where Tom had put him, groaning a little. The other one—the other one must have been getting up, ready to charge back in.

But Shaddock had a wrench in his hand, and he'd used it. That guy had toppled, clutching at his leg, wide-eyed. A third guy, the guy who'd had Tom by the throat, must have been taken by surprise; had turned to face Shaddock, after he'd been struck in the head and dropped Tom, and had gotten his nose broken for his trouble.

The last two were out of Shaddock's range. But he was closing with easy, sauntering steps, swinging the wrench around in loose circles, slapping it meaningfully into his free palm.

One of them had gotten a hit in somehow. Shaddock's lip was split and bleeding. But right then that only made him look more dangerous.

"Now, look," one of them said. He was trying to sound steady, a little annoyed, and he had his chin tipped up so he could look at Shaddock down his nose. But his eyes were following that wrench, unblinking. "Look, Raven, you ain't got anybody backing you up anymore. You don't want to start trouble with us. You know Jimmy won't let you get away with—"

"Jimmy," Shaddock repeated, sneering. "Jimmy Pascal, huh? That's who you got in charge now?" He laughed, and then spat dismissively on the pavement. "I made that kid who he is, after he crossed the gang down Cherry Street and then came blubbering to me, and this is what I get for it."

"Raven," the guy said again.

He almost managed to make it sound like a warning. Too bad for him Raven smiled and then swung at him—he jumped back, stumbling, eyes wide, the wrench humming through the air a couple inches from his nose, and Raven laughed again.

He stayed smiling, for a minute. And then he let the smile drop away slow, and without it his face was harder and meaner than ever.

"Go on," he said, low. "Get the fuck out of here. Anybody comes near Tom Cody again, they're dead, you hear? You tell Jimmy that, from me."

The guy swallowed. The other one who was still standing was even yellower: he was already backing away, reaching to grab at the first guy's elbow and hissing, "Look, let's just—let's just go, let's just go tell Jimmy—"

They went. Turned their backs, like that made them brave, and then kept looking over their shoulders anyhow.

The three who were on the ground were starting to try to pick themselves up, crawling when they couldn't.

Shaddock ignored them, stepped over them—grimaced down at Tom, lip curling, and then sighed through his nose and grabbed Tom by the elbow.

He wasn't gentle about it. But he was strong, and steady, and he had a better grip on Tom than Tom had on the alley wall. Tom swallowed, and drew a slow breath, and let Shaddock take his weight; and like that, he could get to his feet after all.

His head had cleared up all right after a minute or two. His throat was sore, but that was about it. He felt okay.

But he didn't say so, and Shaddock didn't let go of him.

He hadn't let Shaddock pull him out of the alley without the crate. Shaddock wasn't about to help him carry it—he was just holding Tom up while Tom did the carrying, which apparently made all the difference.

He mocked Tom for letting the Bombers get the drop on him, asked him what kind of idiot he was not to hear five of them coming.

But he didn't let go of Tom's arm.

"Thanks," Tom said, when they were almost all the way back to the diner.

Shaddock gave him a sidelong look, eyebrows high. "Guess they hit you pretty hard, huh?" he said, kind of pityingly.

"No," Tom persisted. "You helped me out. You didn't have to. Thanks."

"You think I did that to help you, you're kidding yourself," Shaddock grated out, mouth twisting. "If anybody's going to give you what you got coming to you, it's _me_ , not some dumb punks going five-on-one because Jimmy Pascal told them to."

"Sure," Tom said mildly.

Shaddock hauled him up to the door of the diner. Tom looked at it, and then at the crate in his hands. Shaddock's jaw worked; but he reached out and opened it, levered Tom through with his grip on Tom's arm.

The lunch rush had been what cleaned them out of coffee in the first place—it was over, now. Midafternoon like this, there was nobody in here but Mr. Sampson, who liked to sit in one corner muttering to himself and gnawing absently on whatever Reva gave him, and Reva in the kitchen.

Tom set the crate on the front counter. He let go of it, and for the first time since the alley he actually stopped and looked at his hands.

He'd torn them up a little, that was all. Scraping against the alley wall, and hitting that one guy in the teeth right as the chokehold had been closing on him. He hadn't really felt it before; but they ached some, now, and the knuckles were kind of bloody.

He thought about it for a second. And then he leaned a little into Shaddock's grip, blinking, like maybe he'd felt dizzy for a second; and he said, "I got a room upstairs."

Shaddock sneered at him. Sneered at him, and then shoved him along toward the door at the back that went to the stairs.

He didn't have to keep going. But he did, carried along—maybe wanting to push Tom around a while longer, was all, or maybe he wanted to know where Tom's room was so he could come back later and set it on fire. Hard to say, with Raven Shaddock.

But he came along, and he didn't let go of Tom.

It really was just one room, pretty much. Washroom, running water, but there wasn't any door on it. Table, two legs shorter than the other two, and a couple beat-up chairs that didn't match; mattress against the wall, because that was all Tom really needed anyhow. He could've slept on the floor okay. It was the mattress that had been worth the effort to get, not a bedframe for it.

"Downright palace you got here, Tom Cody," Shaddock said.

"It's good enough for me," Tom said, mild, and reached back to shut the door behind them. And then, without looking away from Shaddock's face, he added, "Why, you got a room at the Hilton?"

Shaddock went still, for half a second. He sneered and used his grip on Tom's arm to shove at Tom a little—let go, finally. And he said, "What's it to you?"

It wasn't a real question, not when he'd asked it like that. But Tom took it like it was, made a face like he was considering his answer, and made sure to stay between Shaddock and the door.

"Not a Bomber anymore," he said. "And there's nobody this whole side of town who'd put Raven Shaddock up for a while in their spare room."

Shaddock didn't answer. He just glared.

Which didn't in and of itself give it away, not really. But Tom had already had all the clues; he'd just been slow putting them together.

No wonder Shaddock was keeping after him all the time for a rematch. Where'd he been living? Jesus, what _had_ he been eating? He hadn't taken Tom up on a sandwich and a coffee, not once. He—

He probably thought Tom had been taunting him, even, offering like it was nothing.

Shit.

And taking Tom out—that was his in. Had to be. The only way back to where he'd been: ruling the Battery, everybody jumping when he said jump, anything he wanted when he wanted it. If he could beat Tom, drag him back to the Bombers, he could make a play to challenge whoever the hell Jimmy Pascal was; or maybe Jimmy would just get out of his way, seeing he was back and meant to stay.

Except—

Except he could've gotten that, if it was all he wanted. He could've waited, let that guy choke Tom out the rest of the way. Come at them on his own, given each of them a wallop with that wrench. They probably wouldn't have argued with him after that, if he'd decided to go tell everybody it had been him, and he'd beaten Tom fair and square.

But he hadn't done that.

And Tom knew, just looking at him, that he wouldn't have.

Tom looked away, and took a half step toward the washroom. Shaddock didn't bolt.

Probably felt like it would have been backing down somehow, to do it now. Which was fine with Tom, because he needed to wash his hands.

The water was icy. Felt good. Tom rinsed his torn-up knuckles clean, picked the grit out of them as best he could, like Shaddock wasn't standing right there watching him; and Shaddock didn't move.

Shaddock's lip was still bloody. But Tom guessed he wouldn't take it too kindly if Tom tried to get close enough to clean him up a little right now.

The door opened. Shaddock tensed.

"Tom? Tom, you in here? I saw you'd brought the—"

Reva stopped short the second she had the door wide enough to see Shaddock.

"Yeah," Tom said, before she could do anything more than stare. "Just ran into a little trouble, that's all."

"A _lot_ of trouble," Reva muttered, without taking her eyes off Shaddock. "Tom, what in the hell—"

"Reva," Tom said quietly.

She looked at him for the first time, then, incredulous, mouth a tight line. But whatever it was she saw in his face, it made her sigh through her nose and soften just a fraction.

"You didn't grab lunch before you left," she said. "I was going to bring it up for you."

"You don't have to," Tom tried. "I'll come down and—"

"I'll bring it up for you," Reva said again, gentler. For an instant, her mouth quirked, and it was like she'd forgotten Shaddock was even there; and then she cleared her throat and aimed a glare at Shaddock, and left.

Tom grimaced a little. She was going to give him a piece of her mind later, no doubt about it, for bringing Raven Shaddock in here.

"Luncheon on a tray," Shaddock said, mocking.

Tom looked at him. "Part of the deal," he said. "I work here, do what she tells me—I get room and board, and something to eat."

Shaddock sneered, and looked away.

Reva was back up with a plate inside two minutes; Tom dried off his hands, now that they were done bleeding and went to take it from her at the door so she wouldn't have to look at Shaddock a second longer than she wanted to, and there were three sandwiches on it.

She usually only gave him two.

He took the plate, and said, "Thanks."

"You better know what the hell you're doing, Tom Cody," she muttered, shaking her head.

Once she was gone, Tom turned around with the plate, picked a chair and sat in it. "Turkey on rye," he said, and took a sandwich for himself.

"That all you ever got here?"

Right—it had been turkey on rye the first day he'd come around, too. Tom shrugged. "Sometimes we get wild, do chicken on whole-grain," he said.

Shaddock snorted, and then looked for a second like maybe he hadn't meant to.

Tom ate.

"Don't start thinking you got my number, Tom Cody," Shaddock said at last, low.

Tom looked at him, and raised his eyebrows.

"I don't need your charity, I don't need your goddamn sandwiches—"

"I'm not hungry enough for three," Tom said. "I can pretend I forgot to tell Reva something, leave the room for a minute, act like I don't know where the third one's gone by the time I get back—or like I didn't even notice there was a third one."

Shaddock glared at him.

"Or," Tom said, "you can just go ahead and eat it."

Shaddock looked furious. He looked like he wanted to grab the sandwich plate and break it on Tom's face.

But now that Tom was paying attention, he looked pretty hungry, too.

"Look," Tom added, "think of it this way. You're getting one over on me, right? Getting me to give you shit for free, and me the dope thinking it'll soften you up or something, when it won't."

"Not exactly the most convincing argument," Shaddock said, "coming from the dope."

But he wasn't glaring at Tom anymore. He was looking at a sandwich—the closest one.

He gritted his teeth. His throat was working. And then he moved, whip-quick, and took it.

His split lip didn't slow him down any, though it had to hurt by now. He ate so fast Tom thought he was going to choke himself on it; and he did it silently, shoulders hunched, like he thought there was a risk somebody would try to snatch it back, like he thought he might have to fight for it.

Like he usually had to fight for it, maybe.

Tom didn't realize he'd stopped eating himself, that he was just looking, until Shaddock had swallowed the last of it and looked up again, and pulled his lips back off his teeth like he was going to bite into Tom next.

"Happy now?" he said, almost soft. "Got what you wanted? Got to feel _sorry_ for me, like beating me once wasn't enough—"

"No," Tom said. "No. Are you serious?" He wanted to laugh, and let himself, a little, just a huff out the side of his mouth. "I'd have to be an idiot to feel sorry for you. I—"

He stopped. He didn't know how to explain it, suddenly. It was—if it was anything in particular he felt about Raven Shaddock, he wanted to say, it was respect, in a funny way. Tom had won their fight, sure. But it had been hard, and it had been close, and Shaddock could've tipped the scales in his own favor about a dozen times and hadn't done it. Tom understood that. It was the same thing that had kept Shaddock from letting him get beat in that alley, from standing by and watching it happen and using it to his own advantage. It was something inside Shaddock, and Tom could see it, and he couldn't see it and not think Shaddock deserved better than to be left to starve in the street.

But it was hard to know where to start.

"Shaddock," he said, meaning to try to figure it out if he could.

But Shaddock was already moving. Shaddock's face was twisting itself up, and Shaddock was reaching out, closing his hands in Tom's shirt—hauling Tom up and out of the chair, shoving him backwards into the closed door.

"Fuck you," Shaddock bit out, and he was—he was about to push Tom aside, go for the doorknob. Leave.

Tom braced himself, took the force of Shaddock's hands and didn't move.

Shaddock had expected him to; that was why Shaddock's face was suddenly so close to Tom's, why Shaddock went still and tense. That was all.

That had to be all.

Except that didn't make any sense out of the way Tom's heart was suddenly racing in his chest, the way his breath had caught in his throat.

Shit. He should've known.

It had been like this with Ellen, too, at first. How thoroughly herself she was, how larger-than-life she could be—the kind of person you had to look at the second they walked into the room, the kind of person you couldn't take your eyes off. And god, it had been so long since it had happened with anybody but her, Tom hadn't even recognized it for what it was; but Shaddock was just like that, too, unmistakable, relentless, magnetic.

Jesus. He sure could pick 'em.

Sooner or later, Tom thought distantly, his heart was going to have to get itself set on somebody who was a little less goddamn dangerous. He couldn't keep on doing this to himself.

Shaddock's lip was still bloody.

"Ought to clean that up," Tom heard himself say, strange and too soft. And he'd never had any sense; he'd never have gone into the Battery for Ellen in the first place otherwise.

He lifted a hand and touched Shaddock's mouth, just to one side of the split.

He thought for sure Shaddock would knock it away. Hit him, maybe, for daring. The only thing Shaddock wanted out of Tom was another fight. Tom knew that.

But Shaddock tensed up, breathed in sharp against Tom's fingertips and—and didn't do anything, except maybe dig his knuckles a little deeper into Tom's chest, fists tight in Tom's shirt.

Tom's heart pounded harder.

"You angling to get your face pounded in?" Shaddock said hoarsely. "Huh?"

"No," Tom said. "No. Shaddock—" He stopped, and swallowed hard. "Raven."

"Shut up," Shaddock spat, but a shiver had gone through him; Tom had felt it, where Shaddock's fists were pushing against him. He still looked angry. But it was like before, the sandwich: he looked hungry, too. "This won't change anything. Understand? I'll—I'll teach you a lesson, Tom Cody, no matter what you—"

"Okay," Tom said, breathless, and kissed him.

Shaddock was frozen under the touch of Tom's mouth, for a second, like he hadn't really expected it even after all that. And then he moved, pressed his forearm across Tom's chest to hold him against the door, and kissed back.

It was hard, messy, rough. Shaddock probably didn't know how to be anything but. There was blood in both their mouths, Shaddock's lip opening up again.

They didn't stop.

Tom broke the kiss at last, gasping. He didn't remember moving his hands, but there they were, gripping Shaddock by the nape of the neck, clutching his wrist so he wouldn't—wouldn't let up too soon, wouldn't let Tom away from the door.

"Stay," he said.

Shaddock laughed, wild, strained. "Who the fuck are you kidding, Cody?"

"Stay. You can have the mattress. I'll—Reva won't mind." She would, but not more than she'd be willing to take pity on Tom, if he begged hard enough. "Just until we're both all right," Tom added, quick. "My hands, your face. Just until we can fight, without anybody having the advantage."

Shaddock stared at him. "You think I can't tell you don't mean a word of that?"

"So wait till your lip's healed and then start dogging me for a rematch again," Tom said. "And stay."

Shaddock's mouth quirked, just a little. "Giving me stuff for free."

"And me the dope," Tom agreed. "Come on. Come on, you got the better of me now. Enjoy it."

Shaddock looked at him, steady and searching. "How about that third sandwich?" he said.

Tom blinked. He was right. There was still one on the plate.

"We'll split it," Tom said.

"Fine," Shaddock said, grudging.

He was still looking at Tom that same way, like there was something he wanted to find, something he couldn't make sense of. But that was all right.

Tom had time to try and get him to understand.


End file.
